Billy Boyle (Billy Boyle World War II, #1)

by James R. Benn

I let go of her hand. I was smart enough to not say anything else. She walked over to the record player and raised the needle from the turntable. “Get out.” “Please, Mrs. Brey, just tell me if you saw anyone else. Lives may depend on it.” “Lives? How dare you lecture me about lives! I’ve already given one life to this damned war! The people you’re talking about are still alive! They can walk in the sunshine, eat dinner, make love, hold hands . . . what do I care about them?” Her face crumpled as she tried to hold back a torrent of tears. She raised her hand to her mouth as she made an anguished noise, tears running over her hand and onto the wooden floor, clean little splashes on a thin layer of dust. She fell to her knees and I thought she might actually be sick. I knelt down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. She trembled as she covered her face with her hands. “I’m not really a bad person,” she said between sobs. Her nose was running, too. “Me either.” “Don’t look at me, please. You must think I’m a hussy.” “Mrs. Brey, you just want to be with your husband, that’s all.” She nodded, but she wouldn’t look at me. We just sat there for a while. She shuddered a few times as the tears came and went. Finally she took a deep breath and rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. “Anders was the only one I saw.” “Thanks.” “Is it important?” “It might be. It just might be.” She still didn’t move and leaving my hand on her shoulder was beginning to feel awkward. I moved ...